


Mad Rush

by Effybean



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Composing, Holmes Brothers, Holmes Brothers feels, M/M, Music, Musicians, Mycroft plays piano, Piano, Sherlock and Mycroft do have emotions, Sherlock's Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 17:32:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4755026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Effybean/pseuds/Effybean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is pissy, so he goes to bother Mycroft. Mycroft is busy, and feelings are had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mad Rush

**Author's Note:**

> The brilliant, beautiful, wonderful GeekishChic and I had a conversation about baby Mycroft playing piano. Because we saw a video of a cute little kid playing piano, and everything is Sherlock. This is what came from the conversation. Short and sweet =)

  


  


             Sherlock glared at his violin, tapping the bow against his thigh as he paced. It was _mocking_ him, _laughing_ at him, because he was blocked. Sherlock was never blocked- he could always compose- but no. For once, he was having trouble. Everything sounding wrong, even songs he hadn't written, and the stupid thing just sat there pleasantly _mocking him!_  


            It was Mycroft's fault, anyways. Usually he blamed Mycroft because blaming Mycroft was like sport- the more he could do it the more points he won. But no, this time...this time, it really, really was his brother's fault. His stupid brother with his mocking remarks about friends, his stupid, stupid brother who never associated with anyone he didn't have to...until now. He _stole_ Sherlock's D.I. And Lestrade was his! HIS! He was...a friend! Right? And brothers weren't supposed to sweep in with fancy cars and thousand quid bottles of wine and woo their brothers' friends. It wasn't right. And he did it, he did it and it was AWFUL.   


  


            Heaving a sigh, Sherlock grabbed his keys and stomped out of the flat. He was rehearsing what he was going to say to his brother when he arrived, planning out every possible way the conversation could play out (he learned from an early age that fighting with Mycroft took multiple strategies). Jamming his extra key into the lock, he opened the door...  


  


         ...and froze. Piano music drifted from the drawing room...Metamorphosis II, Phillip Glass. Both brothers appreciated the eccentric composer's refusal to adhere to norms, and Sherlock was guilty of having feverishly asked Mycroft to play the Metamorphosis while he was suffering from withdrawal. Something about the mix of calm and furious helped distract him from the pain. And now he was hearing it again in Mycroft's house, only this time he was sure there was a different audience. He crept quietly to the drawing room door and stood there, taking in the scene.   


  


        Mycroft played with a passion unrivaled by any professional pianist Sherlock had ever seen. Perhaps because he had spent so long schooling himself not to show any sort of emotion, when he played, he lost himself. He was casually dressed in a jumper and slacks, wrists perfectly lifted, hands moving like graceful, pale spiders, dancing along the keys...and his face was that of someone who was content. The nearly constant frown of disapproval was gone, his brow was smooth, and he had a small smile tugging at his lips.   


  


       The most distressing thing of all, however, was Lestrade, stretched out on the sofa, socked feet crossed, wearing Mycoft's pyjama pants and a smile of his own. His eyes were closed and he was moving his hand ever so slightly, gently, as though he were conducting in his head...and his face, too, was content.   


  


          Suddenly Sherlock was seven years old again, perched on the old wing-backed chair their father loved so, watching Mycroft play for hours. He was getting better at violin by then- they said he had a natural gift, just like his brother (and oh, how he had glowed with pride. To be compared to someone as grand as Mycroft!), but he didn't think he had the passion behind it that Mycroft did. As he grew, he was able to put emotion into his music, especially when composing, but seeing Mycroft play again after all these years...he wondered, rather suddenly, just how much his brother hid from the world behind his mask. He could read him better than anybody ( _could..._ _had Lestrade taken that place now?)_ and the realisation that he still didn't know half of the pathways and rooms in Mycroft's mind hit him in the gut. He had been a child once, a child that thought his brother hung the moon, and because he had been willful and wild, that relationship had been severed.   


  


           For the first time since he was young, he wished he could have that back. And that thought...that was too much. He whirled out of the apartment, closing the door as quietly as he could, and walked home.   


  


           Mycroft came by a few days later with a file for him to look at, and an old Cluedo board from their youth. Neither brother spoke of what had happened, or what Sherlock had witnessed, but it was the least insult riddled meeting they had had in years. And just before he left, as John stormed in angry at Mary ( _again)_ , Mycroft's cold blue eyes met Sherlock's wild ones...and for the briefest of moments, they softened into an expression of affection, before he calmly walked out and they resumed their separate lives.   


  


  


  


  


  


**Author's Note:**

> I really do feel like Sherlock would love the Metamorphosis and Mad Rush by Phillip Glass.   
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C2inNYauU1o&list=PLO8uVcJIfHXS3TSoowyz-pi6mOdtXqPSZ  
> If you haven't heard them, I suggest it. Very beautiful, kind of like being safe inside while a really intense storm is going on outside...it's steady and calm, then feverish, then both. 
> 
> As usual, mistakes are mine, sorry if I suck, I only write when I have icky days (and today was a whopper of a bad day) and it's super late. Oops.


End file.
